


I wooed thee with my sword

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: LARPing, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Tired of writing angst, pre-Derek/Stiles I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do I have to dress up?”</p><p>“No,” Stiles says, “but you’ll look like a jackass if you don’t.”</p><p>Derek gives him a look that clearly says, <i>Only one of us is wearing a codpiece and it isn’t me.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I wooed thee with my sword

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed a break from the relentless downers I've been writing. This really has nothing to do with anything. It's absurd, I know. Look, call it au if it bothers you or doesn't jibe with season 3 (spoiler alert: it doesn't). 
> 
> Also, I STILL have not seen season 3 -- please don't spoil me! I keep getting distracted by fic and spoiling myself. :(

 

 

“I need you to look up something for me,” Derek says as Stiles walks into his bedroom. Derek’s sitting on his bed, looking around, unimpressed with what he sees.  
  
It is, Stiles thinks, pretty rich coming from a man who regularly seems to dredge up furniture declined by the homeless of the city.  
  
“Jesus, Derek. Front door -- have you heard of it?”  
  
Derek ignores him. “Well?” he prompts impatiently.  
  
“Not today,” Stiles says, shaking his head, “going to be busy.”  
  
“What are you wearing,” Derek asks, voice flat, suspicious.  
  
“Don’t you have any friends your own age?” Stiles asks, pointedly ignoring his question right back.  
  
Derek doesn’t answer, which Stiles takes to mean _none that aren’t dead or haven’t tried to kill me recently._  
  
“Look,” Stiles says, kind of feeling like a jerk, “there’s a LARP event and when I’m not busy being hunted down by a mad pack of Alphas and virgin killers, I like to go to them. You dress up, role play, pretend to be someone else without a shitty life for a day. You can come with me if you want.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t know why he even bothered offering. Scott had grudgingly come with him to these events in the past, but he was busy all weekend. It’s not as much fun going alone. Not that Derek’s great company or anything.  
  
“If you drive, I can work on the way.”  
  
“Do I have to dress up?”  
  
“No,” Stiles says, “but you’ll look like a jackass if you don’t.”  
  
Derek gives him a look that clearly says, _Only one of us is wearing a codpiece and it isn’t me._  
  
“Come or don’t, but I’m going. I’m taking the day off.”  
  
Derek frowns and sulks a little, because that’s just what Derek does, but he wordlessly follows Stiles out of the house and slides into his car, giving the mace Stiles carries a pained look.  
  
“Why would you voluntarily do something so stupid?” Derek asks. The sentence is, to Stile’s recent memory, the longest and most personal inquiry he’s ever heard Derek utter to him without using his fist as punctuation.  
  
“It’s not stupid,” Stiles says, fighting a losing battle against annoyance and embarrassment. He’s never been ashamed to be kind of a nerd; it’s what other people depend on, that he can find almost any information on the internet, that he spends so much free time looking up information, tracking down leads for Scott, and conversely, Derek.  
  
Stiles says, “Haven’t you ever wanted to do something just for fun?”  
  
“I do fun stuff,” Derek says defensively.  
  
“Punching through walls doesn’t count.”  
  
“But it’s fun,” Derek says, grip deceptively loose on the steering wheel. It may actually be fun for Derek, scratch some kind of uber-dude itch, but given the context, Stiles doubts Derek enjoys himself as much as Derek wants him to believe.  
  
“Try to keep the punching to a minimum today. Have you decided what you want to be?”  
  
“I don’t care as long as I don’t have to be a fairy or a druid or whatever.”  
  
“You could be a knight,” Stiles says, “I think you’d make a decent knight, maybe one of the evil ones, though.”  
  
“Would I get to carry a sword?”  
  
Stiles grins at him, he can’t help it. It’s the first question everyone asks. “Now you’re getting the spirit of it.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
To Stiles’ eternal surprise, Derek is not actually awful at LARPing. The maidens love him, flock to him in droves, beg to stroke his chainmail. Stiles should have left the bastard at home.  
  
“What do we do all day?” Derek asks.  
  
“Walk around, talk, stay in character,” Stiles says. “There’s going to be a battle later --” Derek looks interested, but Stiles continues, “which you will in no way be part of. Even with a wooden sword, you’re going to accidentally kill someone.”  
  
“I’d be careful,” Derek mutters.  
  
Stiles feels the surprise register on his face. “Holy _shit_ , you’re enjoying this.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” Derek says, looking down, fiddling with the hilt of his sword.  
  
“It’s okay to like something, you know,” Stiles says, feeling suddenly awkward. “I know maybe you don’t know this, but life doesn’t have to be shitty all the time. You’re allowed to have fun, Derek.”  
  
Derek studiously avoids his gaze, but says, “Let’s go to the tavern.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
It’s no more than a painted tent, but it’s crammed with people laughing and sweating. Stiles has to lean close to hear Derek over the noise. “I think you should do the tournament,” he says.  
  
Derek turns to speak, face so close, Stile could count his eyelashes. “What changed your mind?”  
  
“Maybe I don’t like everyone here as much as I thought I did.”  
  
Derek snorts softly.  
  
“You’ll be careful,” Stiles says, for once strangely sure of himself. Nothing much has happened, really; they’ve talked a bit, eaten lunch, picked out armor together, but something’s shifted slightly, though if hard-pressed, Stiles wouldn’t be able to name it. It glints a little just out of his periphery, but it’s altered the way he looks at Derek; Stiles feels warmer, fonder, when he leans close to ask Derek how his meat pie tastes.

  
\--- 

  
Stiles watches the first few tournament rounds before he gets too hot under his armor. He takes off his breastplate, goes to grab a bottled water, and after a moment of thought, takes an extra one for Derek. He’s finished off half, when he hears a familiar voice call out his name.  
  
When Stiles turns, he squints against the sun, the sweat in his eyes; his throat goes tight.  
  
Stiles knows immediately that he will always remember this moment -- fists clenched tight, pulse thundering in his ears and skin flushed, as he watches Derek slay his enemies, smiling; his happy, uncomplicated laughter searing, luminous.    
  


  
  
  
The end.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from A Midsummer Night’s Dream:
> 
> Hippolyta, I wooed thee with my sword  
> And won thy love doing thee injuries;  
> But I will wed thee in another key:  
> With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling. (1.116-19)
> 
>  


End file.
